


Paying the Price

by SixesandSevens



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, prison era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixesandSevens/pseuds/SixesandSevens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for prompt on LJ: There's an explosion, details on how this comes about are up to anon. Maybe a few members are mildly injured or maybe they're all just fine, except for Daryl, whose really bad off.</p><p>This is set at the prison shortly after they take in the survivors from Woodbury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic some time ago. I have several chapters already posted over on fanfiction.net if you'd prefer to go over there and read this, I'm under the same pen-name over there. I'll get the other chapters posted as I get the chance, as well as my other fics. Sorry about the brevity of this chapter, but the others get lengthier. Hope you enjoy! :)

            It was supposed to be a simple run. Should have been. But in an instant it went to absolute shit. They should have seen it coming. But, really, how could they? There was no way they could have known. It’s not as though you expect these things to happen. Sure, you keep your guard up, you know the shit’s gonna hit the fan sooner or later; but when it does, you’re never quite ready for it. And now, whether it could have been anticipated or not was beside the point. Because the fact of the matter was, Rick had missed it. And now, Daryl may very well pay the price for that.

* * *

 

            A bowl of grisly squirrel meat floating listlessly in a thin broth, dollops of fat and bits of chopped onions swirling about to complete the unattractive medley, was presented to him for breakfast. Mmmm, mmmm good.

            “Thanks Carol.” Rick offered sincerely as he accepted his share of the mornings slop, eyeing it dubiously. It may not be gourmet cuisine, or even fast-food level fare, but he was grateful for all the meals Carol seemed to magic into existence. She was becoming increasingly adept at stretching their meager reserves and keeping them all eating as best as possible under the circumstances, doing what she could to include variety- both for health purposes and a change in the menu.

            Carol’s lips turned up into that matronly smile of hers. “Well, it may not be much,” she stated modestly, “but Daryl managed to bring back a string of squirrels last night. At least it’s not peaches and onions.” She chuckled a bit.

            Rick raised his bowl in salute accompanied by a small smile, “Now I’m extra grateful.”

            He headed off toward the tables quietly taking a seat with Daryl and Hershel, bidding them good morning; the greeting was met with a return in kind from Hershel and a grunt from Daryl.

            They sat in amiable silence, not exactly enjoying their meals, but not exactly _not_ enjoying them either. Rick took to people watching as he ate. It’d been two weeks now, since they’d taken in the people from Woodbury; everyone seemed to be adjusting well, settling into a routine of sorts. Everyone was willing and able to contribute in any way they could. He found that any doubts he’d harbored about bringing these people into the fold lessened each day.

            Of course there were still issues to address, kinks to iron out, and much work to be done. Such as continuing to fortify the prison as well as cleaning out new areas, creating some kind of routine for the kids, maybe putting some form of schooling into place - the prison had a library - maybe they could have the kids read for a while each day or something. Then of course there was the large issue of resupplying. Which was currently Rick’s main concern. They were beginning to run dangerously low on everything, most especially food.

            “So, Daryl. You up for a run later?”


	2. Chapter 2

            “So this guy with a premature ejaculation problem comes out of nowhere.”

            “What?” Rick startled at the voice coming from nearly _inside_ his ear, he glanced in bewilderment to the right only to find Daryl leaned over in his seat in a total invasion of his personal space, pinning him with a barely perceptible, albeit self-satisfied smirk.

            Shocked silence reigned for a moment at Daryl’s unexpected and left-fielded comment, then raucous laughter exploded from the back seat of the extended cab. As if Glenn and Maggie’s merriment was his cue, Daryl leaned back to his side of the truck; he also treated them all to a true rarity, an honest-to-god grin.

            “Oh, so _that_ got your attention.” He chuckled. He sobered quickly as Maggie and Glenn continued to laugh uproariously. “Where the hell you been in that damn head of yours, Rick? I’ve been trying to get your attention for like five minutes.”

            Rick shook his head grinning sheepishly. “Zoned out I guess. Sorry about that."

            Daryl waved his hand in dismissal, “Ain’t nothing. Anyway, The Newlyweds and I were just trying to ask you how far out this place is.”

            “Didn’t I already tell you that?”

            “No.”

            “Coulda swore I did.” Rick stated quietly, more to himself than to Daryl.

            “That don’t change the fact that you didn’t.” Irritation began to creep into the hunter’s voice. He propped his feet casually on the dash, began absently picking at his nails. “All you said was you passed it by on a run awhile back and made note to come back later. Something about a general store”

            Rick nodded casting a glance at the Rhee’s in the rearview mirror who had quieted down, but were still smiling happily. They looked more relaxed than he could remember seeing them since the farm, it was good to see. “Yeah, some little mom-and-pop place about sixteen miles from the prison. I was actually surprised to see it still standing, seems to me a good place to round up supplies, but it looked to be fairly untouched from what I could tell.”

            “That’s pretty surprising.” Glenn said, leaning forward between the seats. “How close did you check it out Rick?”

            “And how long ago?” Maggie chimed in.

            “I didn’t actually stop to look at it, just passed it from the road. It’s all by itself though, kinda in the middle of nowhere. I imagine that’s the reason it’s still intact. As for how long…” He rubbed his chin thinking about it. “I don’t know, probably a month or so at least.”

            “Well, let’s just hope no one else had the same idea between now and then.” Maggie stated wryly to the general agreement of the others.

* * *

 

            As they pulled up to Payne’s Half-Price Shoppe, Rick was pleased to find it appeared to be just as intact as it’d been when he’d seen it last. Litter blew about the lot haphazardly and the little adjacent field was badly over grown, the building was beginning to show signs of weathering and the need for general maintenance, but all in all, it was in good shape. No broken windows, the wooden door, more typical for a house than what you’d expect to find on a storefront, was firmly latched. The squat building sat by itself on the corner of a crossroads, providing an unobstructed view in all directions. No walkers for miles. Unless, of course, any bloodthirsty fiends were hidden within.

            “Not bad.” Daryl voiced his approval of the potential treasure trove.

            “Yeah, it’s got a certain curb side appeal.” Glenn joked grabbing his shotgun and sliding out of the vehicle.

            Two steps led to the doorway and raised walkway running the length of the storefront. Daryl climbed them and rapped his elbow on one of the windows bordering the door, waiting to see if in anything stirred within from the disruption. A few minutes passed, all was quiet.

            “Guess we’re good.” He stated as they all moved to take position. Glenn and Maggie pressed up against the wall between the window and door to the left, Rick against the wall to the right, weapons at the ready. Daryl stood in front of the door, crossbow raised, taking point. Glancing at the others and receiving a nod from each, indicating they were ready, he reached for the doorknob and turned, found it unlocked and swung the door inward.

            _BOOOOM!!!_

            The intensity of the heat from the blast was stunning, the gale force winds it produced even more so. Rick found himself launched into the metal railing at the edge of the platform with bruising force. And the noise. Goddamn it was _loud_. The only sound Rick registered above the din was Maggie’s piercing scream and even that only dimly.

            Coughing and with ribs shouting their protests, he rolled up to a seated position. Through the aftermath of settling dust, he spotted Glenn and Maggie gathering themselves back together, standing on shaky legs and checking eachother over, their coughs mixing with his. Maggie’s eyes scanned the area, a look of shock painted on her face. Her gaze locked onto his for a moment, assessing that he seemed to be alright then continued her search, which abruptly stopped, her eyes widening in horror.

            “No.” It came out wispy and pained, and drawing Glenn’s eyes to the object of her distress.

            He paled visibly.

            Rick was almost afraid to look, fearing what he’d find, stomach turning to ice when he did.

            Maggie’s voice grew suddenly stronger, and filled with terror. “No. No, no, no, no! _Daryl!_ Oh my god!”

            She blurred past, literally flying down the steps, sliding to her knees at Daryl’s side where he was only beginning to come to with a groan. Her hands flitted uselessly above his body, clearly wanting to do something, but either not knowing what or too afraid to touch him, before settling on his face to keep his head still when it tried lolling about.

            Unaware he’d even moved Rick found himself kneeling on Daryl’s other side, as Maggie shushed him and gently brushed his hair from his face. Looking down at Daryl, Rick was at a loss. He knew he had to do something. They _had_ to get Daryl back to Hershel, and it was up to him to make that happen. But it was as if his higher brain functions had left the building.

            All he could seem to focus on were his friend’s, his _brother’s_ , eyes swimming wildly in their orbits - left pupil blown leaving only the thinnest ring of blue visible, while the right was at a normal size – the face they were framed in, a ghastly shade of gray; a puddle of blood revealing itself beneath his head as it slowly grew, no doubt a result of landing on unforgiving macadam. But that was the least of his worries.

            And head wounds were nothing to fuck with.

            No, what had Rick really and truly petrified was the jagged chunk of wooden door protruding from Daryl’s chest.


	3. Chapter 3

            Panic gripped him, strangled him, paralyzed him. Daryl lay before him, bleeding everywhere, dazed and confused, struggling to breath; all the while, Maggie knelt there muttering an endless litany, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s gonna be _just_ fine,’ and petting his face soothingly. Daryl allowed her to do this, which was alarming in itself, making no protests to the intimate touch. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be aware it was happening. Rick felt like he was in a dream, mouth gone dry leaving his tongue feeling like a swollen and foreign thing, blood roaring in his ears rendering all other sound dull and distant, body swimming in water thick as molasses making his movements slow and arduous. This couldn’t be happening. But this _was_ happening. Daryl was literally dying right before his eyes, and he was just staring like an idiot. He had to _do_ something.

            Daryl’s abrupt and weak attempt to sit shook Rick from his impotent stupor. He almost let out a hysterical laugh at that, only barely managing to tamp it down. Daryl always seemed to be finding some way to kick Rick’s ass into gear, even half-dead and bleeding on the ground. And just like that, the urge for laughter morphed into the urge for tears. With some effort, he held those back too.

            “Hey, it’s okay, man. Just lie still.” Rick said as calmly as he could, placing a gentle yet firm hand on Daryl’s shoulder, easily holding him in place. In his peripheral vision he noticed Glenn cautiously shining his flashlight into the gaping maw that once was the doorway to the store, but paid him no mind.

            “Whaaa?” Daryl slurred, trying to lift his head to get a look at himself. Assess the damage. The situation. Anything. The confusion in Daryl’s eyes tore at Rick. He clearly had no idea what was going on. Rick wasn’t even sure he was feeling the pain yet, to which Rick could only attribute to shock; he wanted to count that as a blessing, but found it only increased the dread crawling like spiders in his gut.

            “No! Just stay still.” Rick commanded putting just a touch more pressure on the shoulder he held and moving so he bodily blocked Daryl’s view; Maggie’s hand on his forehead assisted in keeping him from seeing. He didn’t need to see that. Not yet. He’d know soon enough as it is. Right now they had to focus on stabilizing him as best they could, keeping him calm, not causing him to panic at the sight of fucking _door_ sticking out of his torso.

            As Daryl’s lids fluttered shut, Rick brushed Maggie’s hands silently asking her to back away for a moment, which she did. He placed his hands on either side of Daryl’s face, trying to both ground him and gain his attention.

            “Daryl.” His eyes opened, but began lolling about lazily. “Daryl.” Rick said again, gently tapping his cheek, the disoriented gaze staggered to a stop on Rick’s anxious one.

            “Think…,” Daryl paused and gasped, screwing his eyes shut and heaving a pained breath through clenched teeth, “…think something’s wrong with me, Rick.”

            Rick tried to keep all trace of fear from his voice, not sure how well he succeeded. “I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re hurt. Bad. But you’re gonna be okay. We’ve got you, we’re gonna get you back to Hershel, and he’ll fix you right up. I just need you to keep still, keep calm. You with me, Daryl?”

            Daryl looked at him through glazed eyes. “Yeah,” it came out a shaky whisper.

            “Rick.” Glenn’s voice was strained as he crouched down next to the others, he nervously looked Daryl over and fiddled with the shotgun, muzzle pointed harmlessly toward the ground, before turning his eyes back to their de-facto leader.

            “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. I think they’re long gone… but the whole place is booby trapped! Why would someone do something like this?” He looked back down at Daryl with an expression that did nothing to conceal his fear for the injured man.

            Thankfully, Daryl’s eyes had slipped closed again so he didn’t notice.

            Rick sent Glenn a meaningful glare, _‘Keep your shit together! Daryl needs us right now.’_

            Aloud he said, “Doesn’t much matter why. What matters is they did, and we need to get Daryl back to the prison. Now.”

            Maggie and Glenn both nodded in the affirmative.

            “I’ll grab the kit.” Maggie stated, referring to the small canvas bag containing a few first aid supplies, currently stored in the console of the truck, and scurried off.

            Rick began carefully prodding the back of Daryl’s head to be sure there was no brain leaking through, or anything else equally horrible, eliciting a moan. When he found what felt like a nearly a two-inch long gash Daryl’s breath stuttered and his left leg kicked out feebly – which Glenn immediately grabbed, stilling it and patting it reassuringly, telling Daryl everything’s okay – but he’s otherwise unresponsive, eyes remaining closed, and all at once Rick’s terrified he’s already slipping away.

            He glanced back down at Daryl’s face, finding it completely devoid of color now, save for the thin stream of blood running from the corner of his mouth, trickling down his jaw and dripping onto the pavement. The red seemed to stand out so _brightly_ against the pallid skin. Daryl’s breathing was shallow and unsteady, hitching in his chest. Oh, and the icing on the cake, there was still that hunk of wood making itself an unwelcome guest, almost dead center in Daryl’s body, a couple of inches below and to the right of his solar plexus. There’s _no way_ internal organs hadn’t been compromised this time. Not like the time he fell down that ravine back on the farm. No, luck wouldn’t shine on them forever would it?

            When Maggie reappeared and promptly began readying bandages, Rick let out a sigh of relief at having something other than his friend’s rapidly deteriorating condition to focus on. He gently lifted Daryl’s head, deliberately keeping his body blocking any view Daryl might have of his upper body, so that Maggie could wrap the gauze around his head.

            She’s quick and efficient in her work and when she’s done, she knelt right in the gore to simultaneously cushion Daryl’s head and keep the bandages from soaking up the blood that had already drenched the ground. Exchanging a helpless look with Glenn, and offering him a thin, watery smile she turned to Rick. “What do we do now? I don’t know if we should take that out.”

            “No,” Rick replied. “We can’t. It’s the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

            “Well it’s not doing a very good job of it.” Glenn cringed at the amount of blood staining Daryl’s shirt, pooling around him. “I mean look at him! It’s got to be hurting him worse; we can’t just leave it in!”

            Rick bowed his head, scrubbing his face with his hands and forcefully pushed away the despair that was trying to break him. He refused to be defeated by this. To let it defeat _Daryl_.

            “No.” He stated with finality. “It’s doing enough. There’s nothing we can do for it right now. If we take it out, we’ll only make it worse.”

            He raised his head looking at Glenn and Maggie almost pleadingly, his voice increasing in intensity as he spoke, whispering harshly to convey the severity of the situation, but not wanting to outright yell and risk disturbing their fallen member or attract any more outside threats than the blast had already. “We take it out… we miss something – a splinter – and put pressure on it…” his voice lowered even more, like he was trying to keep Daryl from hearing. “We could kill him!”

            A few silent seconds drifted by in the aftermath of Rick’s speech, each of them staring desolately at their charge and contemplating the consequences if they fucked this up.

            Sniffling, Maggie wiped at her eyes, tear tracks staining dirty cheeks. “We’ve got to get moving,” she stated in a thick voice.

            Rick moved to slide carefully into Maggie’s place at Daryl’s head and eased his arms underneath Daryl’s shoulders, “Maggie, go open up the truck.” In answer she scooped up the medical supplies and raced off.

            “Glenn, get his legs. It’d be better if we had a board or something to lay him on…” or a _door_ Rick thought morbidly, “… so just try to keep his torso as straight as you can.”

            “Right.”

            Glenn crouched between Daryl’s legs and placed his hands underneath his knees rather than trying to lift from the ankles, hoping that would aid them in keeping the man’s body from bowing when they lifted.

            Looking to eachother, Rick and Glenn began to lift Daryl as one. They’d barely moved him, when Daryl suddenly let out a choked cry, dashing Rick’s hopes that he’d stay unconscious at least for the duration of the whole relocation process. Immediately aborting the attempt to move him, they eased him back down.

            Rick looked at Daryl alarmed to see he’d paled even more, if that was even possible.

            “It’s okay,” Rick reassured. “We’re just moving you to the truck.”

            Daryl moaned, head rolling drunkenly on his shoulders. “What’s wrong wi…?” The words petered out when his eyes landed on the ghastly wound. “Oh.”

            He sounded nauseous when he said it.

            That was all the warning they got before he started heaving, it was enough though, as Rick had already begun rolling him to his left side, Glenn turning his legs to keep his body from twisting. Rick cradled Daryl’s head as he was wracked with the merciless convulsions, Glenn supporting the weight of the wood impaling the poor man, keeping it from shifting as much as possible and causing further damage.

            He didn’t bring up much, just a bit of the mornings’ stew and bile, flecks of blood intermingling with it. But mostly it was painful dry heaves. Finally, the vomiting ceased, Daryl slumped bonelessly in their arms, panting with exhaustion, only Rick and Glenn’s support keeping him from laying right in the mess.

            “…’m I dying?” The words were so quiet and smeared together, Rick could barely understand him. He could see the panic brewing in Daryl’s unfocused gaze, unshed tears pooling in his eyes, he wanted more than anything to take his pain away. To fix this.

            “No. No, Daryl, you are _not_ dying!” He said with conviction.

            Daryl stared up at him with a look of such naked trust, Rick could feel the weight of it in his very soul, and he had no intention to betray that trust.

            “Come on let’s get you to the truck.” Rick and Glenn once again adjusted their grips on Daryl to carry him.

            They moved in tandem, doing a decent job of keeping him level, but the movement was too much for Daryl, and despite his efforts he let out an agonized scream, body going rigid then suddenly limp as he passed out again.

            Maggie stood at the open door of the truck, watching the scene unfold with a panicked expression. As the men neared, she slid into the cab ready to let Daryl’s head rest in her lap and attend to him as best she could during the ride.

            With Daryl settled, Glenn and Rick fairly dove into the front seats. Rick floored the pedal, racing back to the prison while trying to keep the truck from bumping around too much and jostling their precious cargo.

            The air inside the cab was thick with a tense foreboding. Glancing back in the rearview mirror at his grievously injured friend, Rick stomped on the gas a little harder, willing the speeding truck to move faster. He wouldn’t fail Daryl. He. Would. Not.


	4. Chapter 4

            The truck sped down the road making good time, but Maggie couldn’t help but think it wasn’t good enough. She stared down at Daryl noting the lines of pain etched in his features, even in unconsciousness. A thin film of sweat had cocooned his body, yet he was cold to the touch and sometimes he’d shiver in his sleep. His pulse was weak, yet racing. His breathing compromised, becoming harder and harder to detect. His skin far too white. The only color to him the blue tinge his lips had taken on and deep, dark bruises marring the skin under his eyes. And the red of blood. So much blood.

            She could smell it.

            Blood, sweat, fear.

            _Death._

            No! It couldn’t come to that. She rejected the idea. The door fragment that’d pierced him wasn’t even that big, maybe only a few inches in diameter and about a foot long, she couldn’t begin to guess how deeply it’d buried itself in his chest though. He couldn’t die. The shard wasn’t even that big. But in her heart she knew.

             It was _plenty_ big enough. More than.

             Glancing out the window she barely saw the wasted world whizzing by, her main points of focus the fingers on one hand keeping track of Daryl’s pulse and the palm of the other splayed on his chest feeling for the shallow breaths that seemed to be spacing themselves further and further apart.

             Although, she did note that she recognized the area. Not much further now. Only a couple miles further, maybe a little more. Daryl’s moan brought her gaze back down to him. He blinked, slowly opening his eyes halfway, their gaze clouded with pain, the left pupil still blown wide. She offered him a strained smile.

             “Hey there.” She said softly, brushing damp hair off his face. It was getting so long.

             He didn’t answer, just watched her.

             “We’re almost back to the prison.” She told him. “Daddy’s gonna fix you right up when we get there.”

             “Sure.” He whispered calmly, but his eyes said something else. They spoke of such a mournful resignation that it was all she could do to keep from bursting into sobs. Her throat constricted and she couldn’t keep the tears back, they flowed freely down her cheeks, but she did not sob out loud. Only in her heart.

             She reached for the hand lying limply on his stomach and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t you give up, Daryl Dixon.” She demanded, her voice thick from tears, yet her eyes burned with determination. “We haven’t given up on you. You don’t get to give up on yourself.”

             Their eyes locked in a silent challenge. Green on blue. Each warring for their cause- one pair insisting _‘fight!’_ the other imploring _‘let go’_.

            When his eyes tiredly slipped closed and his hand weakly squeezed back she knew she’d won. He’d fight. He wouldn’t give up. She looked up to see Glenn peering back anxiously and gave him a nod. Glenn let out a relieved sigh. And just as Maggie was feeling that spark of hope reigniting, that this frantic flight home wasn’t an exercise in futility, it extinguished.

            Daryl’s hand went lax in hers.

            His breathing stuttered then stopped.

            Panic clawed at her. She felt a wail of despair bubbling up inside her, but wouldn’t allow it to escape. She couldn’t break down now. Not when action was the only course.

            “Rick!” She screamed as she carefully slid out from under Daryl’s head into the floorboard. “Drive faster! He’s not breathing!” Tilting Daryl’s head back, she pinched his nose shut and blew a breath into his mouth.

            She could taste his blood on her lips.

* * *

 

            When Maggie started shrieking that Daryl wasn’t breathing, Rick thought his heart may have stopped. He turned in his seat to the sight of Maggie kneeling in the floor of the vehicle manually breathing for his best friend. He couldn’t see Daryl’s face with Maggie leaning over him like that, but Daryl’s body was alarmingly still. He was still before, when they’d laid him in the truck, but now there was just something different about the way he laid there… some quality Rick couldn’t put words to.

            _Lifeless._

            _Utterly lifeless._

            Hell. Maybe he could put words to it.

            He wished he couldn’t.

            He turned back to the road, grinding his teeth in frustration. They were so close, they couldn’t lose him now! Rick could see the prison looming in the distance, and it was quickly growing to fill the view of the windshield as they hurtled toward it. Even when they crossed the point where scavenging parties customarily slowed, he never let up on the gas. They were nearly on the gates when they finally opened to allow them entry.

            Rick didn’t see who was on sentry duty or patrolling the gates, but whoever it was must have gathered something was up because the inner gates where already open and ready for them. Thank god for that. He got the truck as close to the prison as he could before skidding to a halt.

            A few people were gathering, wondering what had happened and the fear was clear on their faces. As he jumped out of the truck he saw Carol handing Judith off to Carl. It was to her that he directed his orders, giving no one the chance to begin questioning him on what’d gone wrong. 

            “We need Hershel! And a gurney!” He knew he sounded desperate, but couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment. Carol shot him a despairing look even as she began rushing inside, clearly agonizing over not knowing, and the answers to come for that matter, but understanding that explanations would have to wait.

            “And an Ambu Bag!” Maggie shouted out to him as she checked Daryl’s pulse making sure his heart hadn’t given out too.

            “Right. And an Ambu bag!” He called out to Carol’s retreating back.

            “Got it!” She called back as she disappeared from view.

            He threw open the back door, Glenn joining him, ready to move Daryl to the gurney when it showed up. People were closing in, asking what’d happened. He heard Glenn give an abbreviated explanation of the catastrophic run. But Rick couldn’t focus on them. All he could focus on was Maggie performing rescue breathing on his brother. And how pale and still Daryl looked. And how long it was taking for Hershel and that gurney to show up. And how it’d already been nearly seven minutes since Daryl had stopped breathing on his own.

            Finally the gurney arrived, Beth and Carol rushing it out. Hershel wasn’t far behind and was next to them as soon as they had Daryl settled on the gurney. Hershel looked alarmed then grim, but for his part, didn’t ask any questions. Not yet. He just sent Carol inside to get things ready for a surgery and immediately went to work; checking Daryl’s vitals and inserting an endotracheal tube into his throat, attaching the Ambu bag to it. Hershel handed the bag to Beth.

            “Bethie, you remember how to operate this, right? Squeeze it every five to six seconds.” The girl tore her horrified gaze off of Daryl’s broken body. She looked up at her father and the terror melted away, replaced by a steely resolve that shone from her eyes as she began rhythmically squeezing the Ambu bag. Rick realized with a start that Beth was no longer a child, somewhere along the way she’d grown into a fine young woman. He wondered if he’d notice the change with Carl. Maybe it’d happened already, or maybe he was a child with too much power. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d gunned down that boy in cold blood…

            Hershel was directing Glenn and Maggie to take Daryl inside, effectively shaking Rick from his troubling musings. He followed them in, ready to help in any way he could.


	5. Chapter 5

            On his crutches Hershel was slower than the others. Rick would have kept pace with the gurney so he could keep Daryl in his sights, but Hershel had taken this opportunity to learn about the circumstances that had created a patient for him.

            “What on earth happened out there, Rick?” Hershel’s eyes were sad yet resolute. Rick had no doubt the man plodding along beside him was where his daughters’ mettle came from.

            Rick heaved a great sigh, feeling his bruised ribs twinge painfully at the deep intake of air. Not that it mattered. He’d gotten off easy. So had Glenn and Maggie. They were probably a bit bruised and he’d vaguely registered a small cut on Maggie’s forehead. But Daryl...

            If only Rick had scouted the place better, he could have prevented all this. He probably never should have brought them there to begin with. He’d lost Shane to madness borne of desperation and a growing inability to be a team player. He couldn’t lose Daryl too. Not like this. Not to his own stupidity. Guilt flowed through his veins like a poison, drowning him, burning him, crushing him.

            “Rick?” Hershel nearly paused in the midst of swinging himself along on his crutches, to better address the distraught man, then clearly thought better of it and continued down the corridor to C block where Daryl waited, clinging to life; tethered to this world by a hairsbreadth and some plastic tubing breathing for him as he could not.

            When Rick finally found his voice, it came out strained. “The place was rigged with explosives. Daryl took point, and the brunt of the blast. Glenn said there were more bombs inside, just waiting to be triggered. Why would someone do something like that?” He found himself echo Glenn’s words from earlier; shook his head, scolded himself remembering what he’d said when asked the very same question. Now was not the time to get hung up on the how’s and why’s.

            Knowing Rick didn’t expect an answer Hershel nodded and carried on with questions of his own. “What can you tell me about the head wound?”

            “Well he’s definitely got a concussion; left eye’s mostly pupil, the right looks normal. There’s a gash on the back of his head, I didn’t see it, but it felt about two inches long or so. He’ll need stiches. That bled a lot too.” Recounting the days’ events and Daryl’s injuries was making the knot in Rick’s stomach coil even tighter. What looked bleak before seemed to become even bleaker upon closer inspection.

            Hershel made no reply. They’d finally reached C block and he left Rick standing in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Herschel shuffled forward in a hurry to where their family was gathered around Daryl. They’d locked the wheels on his bed right there in the middle of the holding area, Rick was glad to see. Moving him to a cell would pose problems. Hershel wouldn’t have enough room to work and moving Daryl any more than necessary was beyond foolish. The Woodbury survivors had taken D block for themselves, so there was no worry of too many prying eyes, just their core group. Even Michonne was there, pouring steaming water from a large metal pot into and assortment of containers. Rick remembered with a pang that she and Daryl had plans to search for signs of the Governor again tomorrow. That wouldn’t be happening now.

            Carol was rushing about preparing medical instruments with Maggie’s help, while Glenn was tearing a sheet into strips. Beth sat on a stool next to Daryl’s head intently watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest as she rhythmically squeezed the Ambu Bag, only pausing at regular intervals to slide two fingers over his carotid artery, checking his pulse. Hershel scrubbed up quickly before seating himself on a second stool someone had thoughtfully placed for him at Daryl’s right side, handing his crutches off to Glenn.

            Rick startled when Carl suddenly appeared at his side muttering quietly that he’d left Judith with Karen. He looked down at his son who was staring at Daryl with a stricken look on his face. Right now he appeared every bit the child he rightfully was, Rick found he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Carl look so young. Placing a hand on his son’s shoulder he gave a reassuring squeeze. Carl glanced up at his father, expression never changing, then both returned their gazes to where the old vet was checking Daryl’s vitals.

            “Rick, Glenn.” Hershel waited for the two men to come closer before continuing. “I’m going to have to pull this wood out and check for any other debris that may be in the wound. Judging by the placement, I expect his liver’s been compromised, so I’ll need to check it for injuries as well.”

            “His liver?” Glenn asked in a thin voice, looking pained himself. “What if it’s too bad? Could he lose it? Can a person survive without a liver?”

            Hershel regarded his son-in-law with a melancholy compassion. “No son, he can’t.” When the room seemed to collectively crumble under the weight of those words, he pressed on quickly. “But I don’t believe it will come to that. Of course I can’t be certain until I see the damage, but the liver is a large organ and considering the diameter of the foreign object, the damage should be minimal. Relatively.” The last was stated gravely. He seemed to trail off for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, then shook them off and resumed his explanations of what they may be facing.

            “Even if his liver is injured badly enough, I can safely remove a portion of it. In time it’ll even regenerate itself, good as new, as though he’d never even lost a part of it. There’s some good news.” He offered the room a watery smile. His smile faded once again into a businesslike countenance as he nodded to Rick and Glenn. “As I was saying before, I’m going to have to perform invasive surgery on him. For the moment, he’s deeply unconscious. I admit, there’s a part of me that hopes he’ll remain unconscious throughout the procedure, but we have to anticipate he won’t and we don’t have anything in the way of anesthetic. I’ll need the two of you ready to keep him still.”

            There was no need to verbalize their agreement to the task. Rick would do anything for Daryl; for any member of their family actually, and so would Glenn. They each placed themselves at the injured mans’ head and foot, respectively.

            Carol stood across the table from Hershel, scrubbed up and ready to assist. When asked, she handed him one of the strips of material Glenn had just ripped up. Hershel wound it around the rough wood, to keep his hands sterilized and splinter free.

            In that moment right before he gave a mighty pull on it, Rick felt time stop. Everything he saw was crisp and clear. Fear and anxiousness on everyone’s faces. Determined concentration on Hershel’s. Daryl’s pale pale skin. The brilliant _red_ of blood. The tension in the air was so thick he could smell it, he could taste it; bitter and putrid, it coated his nostrils, his tongue, making him queasy. Sound had ceased to exist. Not even the whisper of air from the Ambu bag, or the others’ breathing, or hell, even his _own_ breathing.

            And then, all at once, Hershel yanked up on the wooden stake, _god his best friend had been staked!,_ and time came rushing back into motion with a burst of sound and confusion. He watched Daryl’s body arch up on the table, but the wood didn’t come out. Hershel cursed under his breath and yanked again, harder this time. About four inches of wood came out and then it was free, spattering blood. He handed the door fragment to Michonne.

            The room fell into chaos.

            “Carol! He’s bleeding too much! We have to slow it!” Hershel shouted as the two worked furiously to do just that.

            “Daddy!” Beth cried. “His pulse is slowing!”

            Maggie started sobbing into Glenn’s chest.

            “Damnit! Get some clamps and sponges in there!” Hershel directed Carol, placing bloody fingers on Daryl’s wrist. He didn’t seem pleased with what he found and instantly went back to work on trying to stop the bleeding that was swiftly pooling into a veritable lake around the hunter. “We have to stabilize him now! With the placement of his wound I don’t want to risk compressions if we can avoid it.”

            Rick watched on with mounting horror, knowing this was on him and there was nothing he could do to fix it.


	6. Chapter 6

            The afternoon sun beat down on him, making him sweat. The air was still and oppressively hot, so thick with heat and humidity he felt like he could reach out his hand and rip a chunk right out, take a bite. Not even a breeze was offered up to cool his skin or dry his hair, from which giant drops of perspiration dripped down to saturate his shoulders. The prison yard was eerily silent. No one was about, not even the walkers that had become a constant and grisly décor on the fences were present.

            It was unnerving.

            He studied the area with narrowed eyes and found nothing amiss. But something was off. It was too quiet. Where was everybody? Something must have happened. He was sure of it.

            Daryl slipped his crossbow of his shoulder, raising it and crouching into a hunter’s stance creeping forward with deft steps, even wearing his work boots his footfalls made no sound. He slid the outer door leading to C block, opening it slowly, quietly. Peered inside with bated breath, feeling that any second now, the other shoe would drop. Found nothing but a dark and empty corridor. So he started down it, senses on high alert, heart thundering painfully in his chest.

            When he reached the room preceding the cell block he glanced around the corner and found Beth standing at one of the tables pouring instant mashed potatoes into a big metal bowl. Lowering the crossbow, he let out a silent and relieved sigh feeling he should be reassured by her apparent tranquility, but was unable to let go of the niggling anxiety that kept clawing at the back of his mind. Something still felt horribly… _off._

            That’s when he realized she wasn’t really pouring it. Instead she kept squeezing it with a distinct tempo, about five seconds between each squeeze. Every time she’d put pressure on the box the dusty white flakes would spill out, and each time she stopped so would the flow of dehydrated potato. Talk about fucking _weird._

            But that wasn’t even the strangest part.

            Her hair was pulled back loosely, as it was nearly every day, that little braid pulled back with the rest, but the long strands flowing down her back looked almost… _alive._ The golden locks floated lazily around her face and shoulders, the way it would if she was underwater. It was surreal. The pain in his chest ratcheted up a notch as his heart rate increased in a tempo of its own. Definitely faster than five second intervals between the beats.

            He must have made a noise or something because Beth looked up from the box. The box, Daryl noted with something akin to dread beginning to swirl deep within him, that never got larger but never seemed to empty. And the bowl beneath it, that never grew but never filled. She stood there, still squeezing out those damn potatoes, and regarded him with a gaze he couldn’t quite decipher. Pity. Compassion. Concern. Maybe a mixture of all three.

            “You shouldn’t be here, Daryl.” Beth told him almost defiantly. She never took her eyes off his, kept squeezing her stupid box of potatoes. As she stared across the room at him, the look set into her features melted into one of resolution, tears shone in her eyes, but didn’t fall. “You need to go back. We can’t lose you.” Then she walked past him, heading outside, a broken trail of powdery flakes following her as she went.

            Daryl stared at her retreating form, flabbergasted.

_What the fuck was that supposed to mean?_

_What the fuck just happened?_

            A cold chill ran down his spine, making him shiver. Daryl shook it off and continued on to C block. The first thing he saw was Carol. Then he saw what she was doing and that pain in his chest spiked again. He knew it was caused by his heart pounding from an inordinate amount of adrenaline assaulting his veins, but something about it, much like everything else around here, was just _wrong._

            Carol knelt on the floor in the middle of the room, her arms slick with blood up to the elbows. A single pristine white hand towel lay on the floor next to her right leg; on her other side was a pile of towels exactly like it, except they were drenched with red. One more was in her hands, and she used it to mop up a puddle of blood from the floor.

            Daryl watched as she sopped up the blood, turning the puddle into nothing but a liquidy mess in need of a good scrubbing, and tossed the ruined thing onto the bloody mound beside her with a sickening _slop!_ Then, when she reached over for that last towel one came away in her hands, but there was still one perfectly folded, snow-white towel lying there just as before. The bloodied patch on the floor welled back up into a puddle, right before their very eyes, and Carol went about cleaning it as though this were the most natural way for blood and floors and towels to behave.  

            Daryl was no pussy when it came to blood, or _anything_ really, he had an iron stomach, in fact. He thought he might retch, all the same.

            Carol looked up at him, still drying up the pool of blood, throwing soiled towels onto the ever growing pile and pulling endless new ones from the never depleting single cloth to mop a fresh batch of coppery liquid. He could see that same mixture of emotions Beth had shown him swirling in Carol’s eyes.

            “What are you doing here, Daryl?” She cried sounding appalled. “Go back. You have to go back!”

            When he did nothing but gape at her, she threw a final dripping cloth on top of the others, wiped her brow with her forearm, smearing blood across her face. She stood and walked over to him. “You’re a strong man, Daryl. The strongest I’ve ever known.” She spoke in a confiding tone, tender even. “You can do it. Go back.”

            Then she left the room.

            Without her there to stem the flow of blood oozing from the floor, it was growing. And growing. Becoming a river. Seeping past its original boundaries and toward him. Recoiling, Daryl hurried from the cell block, deeper into the bowels of the prison.

* * *

 

            “A ‘comatose state’?” Rick felt as though someone else said the words. Not him. Some other man, from some other life, was standing there looking down on a broken stranger draped in a light blanket, thick white bandages peeking out from beneath it. He wasn’t here. He was somewhere far away. In a hospital bed, in his own coma, dreaming some fucked up dream filled with death and decay and heartbreak. With people near and dear and true and others fabricated, artificial, imagined.

            Any minute now he’d finally wake up and Lori would be there, beautiful and unspoiled by the horrors concocted in his twisted mind. Carl would greet him with a smile and a face that still shone with the childlike innocence he’d been robbed of by the cruelties of this life. Shane would laugh and ask if he’d had a nice nap and wasn’t he ready to get back to work?, as he gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

            But that was just a steaming pile of horseshit.

            He closed his eyes, letting out an exhausted sigh.

            The operation had taken hours. Nearly six, in fact. Rick was far from an expert, but from what he could tell there hadn’t been much change in Daryl’s condition. The plank of wood was no longer jutting out of him, a definite improvement. They’d given him a round of antibiotics (only two more doses left on hand, and _god_ Rick hoped it’d be enough) and the blood had been cleaned up. But he was still ashen as ever. Still not breathing on his own. Beth continued to pump air into his lungs for him, only recently back at her post after Maggie had taken over for her somewhere around hour three.

            Hershel hadn’t been wrong when he’d told them Daryl’s liver had probably taken damage; he’d ended up having to extract the injured section of the organ. He was clearly displeased that it was necessary, grumbling that Daryl was already weakened enough and it’d undoubtedly lengthen the recovery process, but assured them all once again that, with time, it would heal and regenerate. Nine splinters were removed from the wound, as well; some so large they could scarcely be categorized as such. And throughout it all, Daryl hadn’t so much as twitched. _Of course he didn’t._ Rick thought, the words ‘comatose state’ ringing harshly in his ears.

            “I’m afraid so.” Hershel replied gravely with a weary nod. “He could wake in as little as a few hours, or it could be days… or perhaps longer. I really have no way to know for certain. It could be caused by the head wound, or by the blood loss. It could be a combination of both, or it could be something else entirely. He needs a transfusion, but even if we had the necessary equipment, we don’t know his blood type. Without a transfusion it’s unlikely he’ll last through the night.”

            Hershel paused, a look of deep sorrow filling his eyes. For a moment, Rick didn’t think he’d ever seen the aged man look sadder. Not even when Shane had unleashed the walkers from the barn and the inevitable carnage that followed, or the night when the farm fell forcing them to flee and leave behind the home that had been in the farmer’s family for generations. Rick watched as the pained look slipped from Hershel’s eyes, his lips forming a grim line. “Carol, how many bags of saline do we have left?”

            Carol crossed to the rolling table of medical supplies, rummaging through a cardboard box. “Fourteen.” Came her muffled reply, her face still bent over the box as she continued moving around the contents.

            “Good. Set up a second line and keep both running at all times. We can use it to help replace the blood he’s lost. It won’t be as effective as a transfusion and it’ll take longer, but it just may be enough to turn the tables in his favor. With any luck it’ll provide him enough strength to begin breathing on his own again. Hopefully, then, he’ll come back to us."

            Rick watched as Carol attached a second IV to the back of Daryl’s right hand to match the one in his left, her movements deft and gentle. She and Daryl were very close, he knew. He could see the worry etched in her face just as well as he could see it on everyone else in the room, but not once, from the moment they arrived at the prison with Daryl bloodied and broken, to now, had she allowed her emotions to get the better of her. She simply took on each task that needed doing and did it. He couldn’t help but admire her fortitude. The meek and oppressed woman he’d met back at the quarry was gone. She’d been reborn into a survivor. Mother to them all, friend, confidant. She was just… Carol. Thank god for Carol.

            Hershel pushed himself up on his crutches and shuffled over to examine both IV lines and adjust the drip rates. Letting out a deep sigh, he looked to the others gathered around. “I’ve done all I can for him. It’s up to him now.”


	7. Chapter 7

            “He’ll be okay, ya know.”

            The soft voice startled him. Rick had almost forgotten Beth was even there, silently pumping air through the Ambu bag. Carol had offered to take over for her, but the young woman had refused, saying that she’d keep watch over Daryl with Rick tonight. They’d decided that two people would keep vigil at all times, at least until he was breathing on his own, and would periodically trade off on ‘breathing duty’. That way if, god forbid, something were to happen there’d be an extra set of hands and they wouldn’t have to choose between letting him suffocate until help arrived or dealing with any complications.

            Rick peered up at her. The look she pinned him with wasn’t one of naivety, and there was fear and concern there, sure, but more than that there was confidence and an assuredness that Rick realized he hadn’t felt himself for a long time now.

            Rick sighed wearily and buried his face in his hands, muffling his voice. “He’s in a coma, Beth. He’s on life support for Christ’s sake!”

            Beth nodded, “Yes. But he’s strong. He’s a fighter and if anyone can survive this it’s Daryl.” Her gaze traveled back to the archer’s still face and lingered, her features calm and thoughtful.

            Rick slid his hands down his face, his eyes and nose peeking out over the tips of fingers still pressed over his mouth, as if to keep all the bubbling emotions, the guilt and fear and stress, from escaping him in the form of a desolate cry. He watched intently for any sign that the hunter was waking. He’d yet to stir, face slack and still, arms limp at his sides. His skin remained nearly translucent and Rick was beginning to wonder if his friend would ever regain any color. Daryl’s lips no longer had that deadly tinge of blue marring them. He supposed that was a good sign. At some point Hershel had come to check on his patient and declared that Daryl’s pulse was a bit stronger now, a bit steadier. He had stated hopefully that the IV drips must be working. Both lines were still running, though Hershel had turned the drip rates down by a few degrees saying something about not wanting to dilute the blood and defeat the purpose of the ‘blood replacement’. Rick couldn’t guess what kind of complications could arise from such a thing, nor could he guess how long ago Hershel’s visit had been, but he felt sure it’d been hours.

            When Beth spoke again her voice was strained, holding tears at bay. “My daddy survived. When you had to cut off his leg. No one expected him to make it. Not even Maggie.” She paused a moment, chin quavering then stilling as she reigned in and took control over whatever it was she’d been feeling just then. Her voice was strong and steady as she continued. “I overheard Lori when she told my dad about how you got shot. You were in a coma too. You made it. My dad made it. Daryl will make it. Don’t give up on him, Rick.” She lifted sad eyes to pierce him with her stare. He could see the fires of love and light, of faith and conviction burning in their depths, beneath the sorrow. “You _can’t_ give up on him.”

* * *

            It was darker in this part of the prison, but it didn’t take long for his hunters’ eyes to adjust as he crept along on silent feet through the maze of corridors between cell blocks, the trepidation twisting in his gut increasing with every step he took, with each corner he turned. The doors were shut on each room he passed, and they were all locked when reached for the handles of every one, barring his way. So he continued onward, tirelessly and fearing what he’d find along the way, but feeling there was something there, along the path, waiting.

            Eventually, after what felt like hours, the hallway bottomed out forcing him to choose a new direction. He didn’t know which way to turn. He stood there peering right, then left, uncertainly. Inexplicably the uncertainty he felt shook him to the core. Somehow knowing that a misstep would be his undoing and that terrified him more than anything ever had, which was saying a lot considering all the horrors he’d encountered in his life. He looked to the right again and noticed light seeping from underneath one of the closed doors along the hall in that direction. How had he missed that before? Had it been there a moment ago?

            Hesitantly, he edged toward the light, taking his time, unsure of what he’d find on the other side of the closed door. He ignored the trembling in his hand as he reached for the doorknob. Turning it slowly, the door swung inward revealing Glenn and Maggie, which relieved and disconcerted him all at once. Familiar faces, yes; but remembering his recent encounters with Beth and Carol had left him wary of what may be in store for him now.

            The couple had yet to notice him. They were standing near the wall on the far side of the room facing eachother, staring into one another’s eyes; it was clear by their expressions they were sharing some anguish and taking comfort in one another. Daryl felt like he was intruding on a private moment and began to back from the room, but what he saw next froze him in place. He watched as Glenn reached up with his thumb, tenderly wiping a tear from Maggie’s cheek, smudging it. Smudging it red.

_What in the holy fuck?_

            Daryl’s heart started beating wildly again, throbbing painfully against his ribs. She was crying blood! Why the fuck was she crying blood? And why wasn’t Glenn losing his mind over it? He took a single halting step into the room, blinded with alarm.

            “Maggie, are you ok?” The question tumbled out rife with distress. “What happened?”

            Their bodies tensed as their heads whipped toward him, hands reaching for weapons before aborting the action when they saw it was just him. But as their eyes latched onto him, he knew instantly that neither he, nor his questions, were welcome here.

            “What happened?” Maggie’s eyes flashed furiously, but there was something else behind it… grief maybe? She strode over to him with measured steps as she spoke, getting right in his face, making Daryl wish he’d left the couple to it rather than sticking his nose in their business.  

            “You promised you’d fight, that’s what happened!” Daryl honestly didn’t know what she was going on about. Hadn’t he always fought hard alongside the rest of them, keeping the group safe? He couldn’t formulate a response, only stare back at her in surprised confusion as her eyes scanned his face searchingly, looking for something. What, he didn’t know. Whatever it was he didn’t think she’d found it. Bright green eyes filmed over with red, then spilled over and down her cheeks. She turned her back to him.

            “Why are you here, Daryl?” Her voice was quieter now. Weary. “You shouldn’t be here. Just… just go back.” Glenn wrapped his arms around his wife as she cried quietly into his shoulder. Daryl was staring at them, at a loss for… well anything, when Glenn met his gaze over Maggie’s head.

            “She’s right man.” And somehow Glenn managed to sound assertive and compassionate, wounded and indignant all in one shot. He led Maggie to the door, walking away from Daryl just as everyone else he’d encountered that day had walked away from him. Glenn paused once they’d reached the threshold, but didn’t face him.

            “Just go back.” Then they were gone, disappearing into the shadows outside the door, and Daryl was left dumfounded and alone in the little room. Glenn had said that last so casually, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

_Just go back._

            But it wasn’t.

            It wasn’t simple at all. Daryl was just beginning to understand how absolutely far from simple it really was. Beth had told him to go back. Carol too. Now Glenn and Maggie had voiced their opinions on the subject as well. And yet he couldn’t. How could he? Go back where? Outside? Leave the prison entirely? What were they even talking about? But it didn’t much matter anyway, because anytime he even entertained the idea of obeying their pleas he was already moving deeper into the prison on legs seemingly with a mind of their own, and now he currently found himself heading into the Tombs.

            The further he went, the more doubt crept into his mind telling him he was making a big mistake, he should heed his family’s warnings; his stomach twisting and clenching with the uncertainty of it all, making him nauseous. But he didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. It was almost as if something was calling him, urging him onward to find out where the road led, whether to his own peril or not. Whatever the case may be, he had to know, needed to see this through.

            The labyrinth of corridors was pitch black, he couldn’t even make out the outline of his fingers when he held them directly in front of his face, and he’d entered this place completely unprepared. No lantern, no flashlight, not even a lighter or lousy book of matches. So he stumbled along blindly, fingertips skimming rough and cracking concrete walls damp with mildew and smelling of rot. He lost count of the doorways he’d felt his way past, of the staggering number of twists and turns he’d made, and a new sensation of anxiety was beginning to build borne of the knowledge that he was more and more certain that his chances of finding his way back were growing slimmer with each step.

            When he came to yet another juncture in the path, he let out a frustrated growl. He was so disoriented, and it was so dark. Going forward was becoming an exercise in futility and going back was no longer an option. It was a tough pill to swallow, but he was lost. The thought made him inexplicably angry. Daryl Dixon did _not_ get lost. Ok, maybe that once in the forest as a child, but who’s counting? Anger dissipated into despair. He could just give up. Sit down right here and let whatever planned to catch up with him make its way to this spot. Whether it came in the form of the group coming to the rescue, walkers coming to feast or nature to run its course. Whatever. Let it come. He really was tired now that he thought about it. And his chest still hurt, which was strange. His heart rate had finally calmed down. Well… mostly. He was still tense and anxious, but his pulse was thrumming in a steady and only slightly elevated beat, giving his chest no right to be throbbing the way it was.

            Absently his hand kneaded at the ache, like he could simply massage the pain away, and contemplated just what in the fuck he was doing. He was about to just give up. All his instincts balked and screamed in refusal when he let himself think about what he was preparing to do. He couldn’t give up! That’s not who he was. He’d never given up before, not through any of the shit he’d been through. The beatings, group homes when the state felt like interfering in his home life, Merle never being there when he needed him most… _and then_ the world had really gone and taken a shit, dead rising up and world-without-rule-of-law becoming a pressing reality. And he was about to throw in the towel because he’d gone and gotten lost inside a dark building? Because he was feeling a bit fatigued and his chest hurt? Because some of the only people he’d ever cared anything for aside from his brother had said some strange things, behaved a bit oddly?

            Cursing himself for being a dipshit, he abruptly turned to the branch on the left and began heading down it. One direction was as good as any, right? Then all at once he plowed into something solid. Immediately it grabbed him with bruising strength, a hand on either bicep. It all happened so suddenly, he was completely caught off guard, his arms pinned to his sides and he just knew he was totally _fucked._ He didn’t mean to, but he was so startled he couldn’t hold it back and let out a terrified scream – an action that horrified him in its own special way.

            It took him several beats to process, but instead of the gnashing teeth and gurgling growls he’d been expecting, he was being shaken and yelled at. When Rick’s voice finally filtered through the panicked jumble that had briefly traded places with his mind, he nearly sagged in relief.

            “Jesus Christ, Rick! You scared the shit out of me!” He’d meant to sound pissed, but the hoarseness in his voice ruined the effect. Not that it really mattered anyway, because either Rick didn’t hear or simply chose to ignore him as he continued to rant like a madman.

            “It’s just so much, and now… this? God, how did it come to this? I’ve tried, Daryl. I have! You know it! Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here!”

            As Rick kept on Daryl noticed that the immediate area around them was illuminated by a lantern Rick must have set at their feet. Had that been on before? It couldn’t have been. It’d been so dark when he’d run into Rick. But then, how was it on now? Rick was still tightly gripping his arms, he couldn’t have lit the damn thing, but there it was shining away all the same. But all of a sudden the how’s and why’s of that lantern’s light went screaming from Daryl’s mind, along with any residual relief he’d felt at encountering his friend. When he looked up again from his scrutiny of their surroundings he got his first good look at his brother-in-arms, and what he saw made his insides curdle.

            He’d seen Rick covered in blood before, hell nobody in the group was a stranger to having gore painted on them like a part of their daily garb – maybe less so now that they had made the prison their home than when they were on the road – but this… this was fucking insane.

            Daryl could feel his eyes widening, his jaw hitting the floor – in shock or horror, who knew? take your pick – as he took in Rick’s countenance. The man was literally dripping in the stuff, like he’d gone for a swim in it. But more than that, something wasn’t right with its movement. The droplets were slithering over his skin like snakes, beading up and rolling around like living things, lengthening and receding, defying all logic, flowing in ways that just weren’t possible, up, down, around. It was like he was _made_ of blood. Like he _was_ the blood.

            “… happen? Oh god, it’s my fault!” Rick was shaking him harder now. “Daryl! Are you even listening to me?” And no, he hadn’t been listening. He’d been too busy trying not to have a stroke over what he was seeing.  Rick didn’t bother waiting for an answer, and frantically kept on, voice tinged with desperation and despair. “You should never have come here. I’m so sorry, Daryl. If… if I could take it back, then… It’s all wrong. Don’t you see, Daryl? You have to go back. Go back! GO BACK!”

            With that Rick finally let go and shoved him away before storming off, leaving Daryl standing there, rattled and alone, for the fourth time since this whole nightmare had begun. He looked down and sucked in what was supposed to be a calming breath, but it turned into a gasp when he saw the bloody handprints covering his bare arms, and one directly above his heart that he could feel burning painfully, saw that it’d actually singed a hand-shaped hole in the material and was surprised that anything could still be shocking after everything else he’d seen that day. But damn it all if that hadn’t taken the wind right out of his sails.

            Dizzy, he leaned against the wall. He felt so lost and confused. What the hell was he supposed to do? What did all this even mean? And all the crazy shit? What in the fuck was he supposed to do with that? He decided not to think about things like endless potato flakes and slithering blood for the time being, he couldn’t handle it right now. He’d focus on other things.

             His friends, his family, kept telling him to go back, and fuck maybe he should listen. Rick had left the lantern so he had a light now, he could find his way back now that he could see. He could do that much. He reached for the lantern, but just as his fingers curled around the cool metal of the handle the light went out.

             “No! Son of a bitch, no!” He tried to get it working again, but it was useless. It was battery operated and no amount of swearing or fiddling was going to breathe life back into the damn thing. With a frustrated yell he hurled it into the wall shattering it into pieces.

             Chest heaving in angry pants, he stared down at the mess, not that he could see it, not in this inky darkness. When he’d calmed down enough, he slowly spun a full 360 degrees trying to suss out which way to go, coming up blank.

            Damn it! What the fuck was wrong with him? Directions shouldn’t be this hard for him, he’d always had an internal compass and clearly it’d been blown to shit. He felt ready to rip his hair out, but that’d get him nowhere so instead he just picked a direction at random and started walking.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last of what I've already written on this fic, so updates will slow down now. I should have chapter 9 up soon though! I just want to thank everybody for reading, I hope you all continue to enjoy! :)

            Five days. It’d been five days since Rick and the others had rushed Daryl back from that ill-fated run and the man had yet to stir. He’d improved, sure. Stabilizing enough that he was now down to one IV and breathing on his own. The concussion was still a factor, but seemed to be healing. Slowly, but healing all the same. Daryl’s pupils weren’t _as_ mismatched as at the beginning of it all, although they still weren’t even either.

            Hershel was optimistic, saying that these were good signs and Daryl’s battered body just needed time. But everyone, Hershel included, was still fretting over their unconscious hunter. Five days was a long time to remain unconscious. And even with the improvements, such as they were, there was still plenty to be concerned over.

            Infection for one. They’d run out of antibiotics within the first two days. So far the wound in his chest appeared to be healing well, no signs of infection or other complications, but that didn’t mean it’d stay that way. Everyone had stuck close these past five days, petrified of Daryl taking a bad turn and not wanting to leave him, but Rick was adamant that they get more medication. Just in case. Not to mention the inevitable need in the future. Plans had been organized for a group to go out in about an hour.

            Aside from the threat of infection, there could be internal bleeding just lying in wait to reveal itself, whether in the chest wound or head wound, or god forbid, _both_. His lungs could give out again, or the blood loss could prove to be too much. He might just never wake up. He could just slip away from them in his sleep and that’d be that. He’d be gone. Either they’d catch it in time and make sure he didn’t come back, or he’d turn before they realized what’d happened to him. They’d taken precautions. Daryl’s left arm lay limply next to his head, secured to the bed with handcuffs. No one wanted to admit what it meant. That the chances Daryl would make it were steadily falling with each moment that ticked by and he didn’t wake. Telling themselves and each other it was just to be on the safe side.

            Michonne sat on a chair next to Daryl’s sickbed waiting for Carol to come relieve her, watching the mid-morning sun streaming through the bars on the windows playing across his closed lids, casting shadows over his wan complexion whenever a stray cloud would drift lazily through the sky. What would otherwise be a peaceful morning was blanketed with the tense atmosphere that’d been haunting them all these past few days. The stress and worry for Daryl taking a heavy toll on the group.

            Michonne hadn’t had much chance to get to know the man, but she respected him. Could see he was an honorable man, a strong man, a survivor. She felt he was someone she could befriend, providing he made it through this. Seeing him so weakened and still was so at odds from the little she’d learned about him; and though she barely knew him, she still felt concern for him, a pain gripping her heart at seeing him this way when she allowed the feeling to slip through.

            They’d transferred Daryl onto a bed in one of the cells once Hershel deemed him stable enough to be moved. Supposedly to give the man privacy. Michonne didn’t really see how that mattered much at the moment, seeing as he was out cold. She surmised it was out of respect for Daryl more than anything else, although it also seemed pretty clear to her that he didn’t care much for the idea of residing in a cell. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Daryl had made his own setup on the perch, but it’d be far from realistic to attempt lugging him upstairs, nor to expect Hershel to climb them all day long when trying to check on his patient. So a cell it was.

            A quiet shuffling in the doorway alerted Michonne to Carol’s presence, signaling it was almost time to head out. Rather than acknowledging the other woman, she kept her eyes on the injured man, willing him to wake up before she left for the run, even if just for a minute. It’d give her some hope that he’d make it. But he remained as still as ever, she’d have to go out with nothing but uncertainty.

            “Any change?” Carol asked softly from the entryway, peering in at Daryl with worried eyes.

            Michonne shook her head wordlessly, causing Carol to sigh and step a little further into the cell. “They’ll be leaving soon. You sure you’re up to it? You’ve been with him half the night.”

            She finally glanced up at the other woman from her seat before looking back to Daryl and getting to her feet.

            “I’m sure.” She stated simply. It was no different than taking second watch then continuing on with the day. Besides, this was important. This group was important. She may not have been with them long, but these were good people and she counted herself incredibly fortunate to have obtained a spot in their ranks. Already, she was rapidly coming to the stark realization that she’d do anything for them. Her gaze lingered sadly on the wounded man before turning and walking away, hoping against hope this wouldn’t be the last time she saw him.

* * *

 

            Daryl looked up only to startle. Somehow he’d managed to get himself back to C block, though he had no idea how. He could have been walking through the tombs for decades, or mere moments, he honestly couldn’t say and it felt like it could be either. Or neither. He was hopelessly confused. At least he wasn’t lost anymore.

            Unable to help himself, his eyes were instantly drawn to the spot on the floor where Carol had been futilely sopping up that pool of blood earlier. There was no evidence anything was ever amiss, so either it’d finally been cleaned or he was officially losing it. Whatever the case, he was glad it was gone. He didn’t think he could handle more bleeding _floors_ just now.

            Yeah, he’d have to err on the side of him losing it.

            Feeling foolish for it, but powerless to do otherwise, he began to creep warily through the block, almost afraid of what he might find. Turned out it was for good reason.

            “Well, well, well baby brother! You sure stepped in it good this time, didn’t you?”

            Daryl felt himself freeze in place, eyes going wide, breath catching in his throat. His stomach curdled in horror. His pounding heart had finally mostly calmed, easing the ache in his chest a bit, now it skyrocketed again bringing the pain back with it tenfold. It was stupid, he was being a pussy. But he was terrified.

            Merle was _dead_.

            “What’s the matter with you Daryleena?” Merle was getting pissed now. “What, your britches get too big to talk to ole Merle?”

            Merle was _talking_ to him.

            “Daryl!”

            His chest really hurt.

            “Quit being a goddamn pussy and get over here boy!”

            Steeling himself, he finally turned. And sure enough, there was Merle, grinning at him from inside a closed cell.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really just a filler chapter, but it moves us forward for more exciting things next chapter. At any rate, I hope you enjoy! :)

Carol couldn’t concentrate. The mending she’d been attempting lay pointlessly in her lap, a basket full of clothes sat untouched on the floor next to her. It’d been early morning when she’d taken over Michonne’s post at Daryl’s side, now it was late afternoon. She didn’t mind keeping vigil over her dear friend, really there was no other place she’d rather be, but that didn’t keep her from feeling like she was sitting still in time. It didn’t keep her mind from running wild with worry. Worry for the group that’d set out earlier. Would they find the medical supplies they so desperately needed? Would they be ok? Would they run into trouble, whether in the form of walkers or humans, maybe even the very same people that had done this to Daryl? And Daryl. How she worried about him. Body broken, lost, trapped in his own mind. Was it a silent sleep? Was he dreaming? Was he in a place of peace and comfort, or was he scared and hurting? He looked calm and relaxed, peaceful even. Deceptively so, she worried.

Gazing at his still form, she drew the planes of his face with her eyes committing every feature to memory; the scruffy beard, the mole on the corner of his mouth, feathery lashes attached to closed lids, concealing what she knew to be, eyes intensely blue and ever observant. His appearance was already changed from just a week ago. The trauma he’d endured manifesting in a visible way, beyond the sickly pallor his skin had taken on or the deep, dark bruising under his eyes. His cheeks were beginning to take on a hollow look and his face had thinned even more than it had already during their time on the road, the group had only just begun to attempt at putting some meat back on their bones. If he didn’t wake up soon...

She ached to do something for him. Give him some anchor to fight his way back from wherever he was stranded now. Reaching out, she took his cold and limp hand in her own. “Please come back to us, Daryl.” She whispered, earnestly. “Come back.”

“How’s our patient doing?”

Carol jumped, ashamed at having let her guard down. Hershel shouldn’t have been able to sneak up on her, especially with the crutches echoing around the concrete walls announcing his presence long before he was ever seen. Although, she supposed if she was going to let her guard down anywhere, this would be the place.

“He’s the same.” She replied, standing so Hershel could sit down.

He sighed before shuffling over and handing Carol his crutches once he’d sat. “I admit I was hoping there’d been some change, but seeing as no one sent for me, well, it didn’t seem likely.”

Hershel set about checking Daryl’s vitals and changing his bandages, Carol handing him the supplies he needed, neither speaking. When Hershel removed the bandage on Daryl’s torso, he took a harsh intake of breath.

“Shit.” He cursed unhappily, almost angrily, but there was too much sadness woven into his tone to be true anger.

“What?” Carol asked alarmed, fear coursing through her. “What is it?”

“He’s developed a slight fever, and look here,” Hershel pointed to the wound in Daryl’s side. “See this, the redness and minor swelling, points to the beginnings of infection.”

Carol gasped in dismay. She’d had a bad feeling all day. Despite all the worrying she’d been doing, she’d been praying it’d been for nothing. But she’d known, could feel it in her bones, no matter how much she tried to deny it; something dreadful was going to happen today. Now that ‘something’ had presented itself, she could only hope it’d stay at that, and not be compounded by anything else terrible. Their luck had to turn at some point, right?

She eyed the wound in Daryl’s side grimly, failing in her attempt not to dwell on all of the implications an infected wound may mean for him. Closing her eyes to block it out, she shifted her scrutiny of Daryl’s injury to the cell door, as if she could conjure the others’ return by sheer force of will.

“They’ve been gone awhile now. They’ll be back with the medicine soon. Everything will be fine.” She couldn’t tell who she was trying to reassure more, Hershel or herself.

* * *

 

“M-merle?” Daryl cringed at himself as he stuttered pathetically, but it didn’t stop him from doing it again. “W-what are…? H-how?”

“Well I’m here ain’t I?” Merle shrugged nonchalantly. “What’s it matter how?”

Daryl stepped closer to the cell, feeling almost removed from his body, like he was fighting a current. It was all he could do to keep from trembling. He couldn’t do that. Not in front of Merle. Dixon’s don’t feel weakness, and they sure as shit don’t show it when they do. How was this even possible? This was all so surreal. All of it. Beth and her goddamn potatoes, Carol and her stupid ass bleeding floor, Glenn and Maggie with bloody tears, Rick _made_ of fucking blood. All of them pleading with him to go back, wherever the fuck ‘back’ was. And now Merle was here. His dead brother. Dead, but somehow here, beckoning him forward.

_What is happening to me?_

_I’m losing my damn mind._

The weight of it all was pressing down on him, threatening to crush him, grind him into dust. Slowly and painfully. He could barely breathe. He could barely move. Yet he forced himself to continue forward, closing the short distance between him and his brother. But when he was just a step away and Merle reached out to him through the bars he stopped abruptly, suddenly afraid of his brother’s touch. Afraid it’d shatter the illusion. Because no matter how much he wanted it to be true, how could Merle really be here?

“Ooohhheeee boy!” Merle crowed. “Where’s your balls at Darylina? Let me guess. Your sweetheart, Rick’s holding on to ‘em for ya.”

Daryl glowered at him. Reminded himself that he missed his brother. Merle just cackled at him like a lunatic from inside his cell, like it was the funniest shit ever. All it did was aggravate him, his nerves and his increasing headache.

“This ain’t real.” Daryl muttered to himself. “I’m dreaming.”

“Awwww. Ain’t that touching. You dreaming of me? Well now, don’t that just give me the warm fuzzies.” Merle teased sarcastically before turning vile. “Hey! What makes you think you’re dreaming, huh boy? Maybe you’re just crazy. Yeah, I bet you finally took a swan dive right into the deep end.”

“Would you let up, Merle!” Daryl shouted in annoyance. “What the hell is going on around here?”

Merle looked at him seriously. “Well, if you haven’t figured that out yet, baby bro, then you’re in for a sight of trouble.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I finally got the next chapter up, sorry about the wait again, but I hope you're all still having fun with this story, even if I'm not always quick on the update.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Glenn had a bad feeling.

He couldn’t put his finger on the cause, but the sense of unease had been growing steadily since they’d left the prison. The run had gone well, surprisingly well in fact. Really, it’d been awesome. Everything going smoothly, no obstacles slowing their progress on the drive there, just a handful of walkers dotted sparsely through the buildings they looted, and best of all, finding everything they needed and then some; only having to go to two of the three clinics they’d mapped on their route. They could have gone to the third, these days you could never be too stocked up on anything. But Rick didn’t want to push it, stating that they’d gotten what they’d come for and had been away long enough as it was. They could come back for the third location another time.

Glenn suspected that Rick was feeling apprehensive too, which only served to unnerve him even further. It just gave validity to what he was thinking. Runs practically _never_ went this smoothly. So it had to mean something bad was coming right? Either they were about to get ambushed, run into a herd of walkers, or something awful was happening back home.

Something to do with Daryl, he worried.

If the air in the cab of the truck (and _why_ did they have to take the same truck? He and Maggie couldn’t escape the blood staining the seats, and had to sit on the soiled material. It felt wrong.) he could almost pretend that he was just psyching himself out. That everything was perfectly fine and there was nothing to worry about. He glanced over at Maggie. She was staring distractedly out the window, the fingernails on her left hand absently scratching at the seat, like she could dig the blood out the cloth.

Glenn’s heart went out to his wife. This had to be worse for her. Sitting back here again like this. She’d been the one sitting on these seats trying to hold Daryl together mere days ago. He reached out his own hand gently stilling hers and giving a reassuring squeeze. She glanced over at him and gave him a sad smile, squeezing back lightly. He could see the fear he felt mirrored in her eyes.

“Hey,” Glenn spoke softly. “It’s gonna be ok.” Maggie stared at him with a look that said she wanted to hold on to hope, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. The edges of her lips turned down as she struggled not to cry.

“Mmhmm.” She nodded giving him another smile, this one shaky at the seams, then turned back to the window.

Suppressing a sigh, he kept hold of Maggie’s hand and looked up through the windshield, relieved to see the prison off in the distance.

_“Almost there,”_ he thought. _“Almost there.”_

* * *

 

Daryl stared at his brother in warily. Merle would never change; here he was, locked in a cell, no way out, taunting him. Yet Merle’s words struck a chord with him, leaving him feeling even more unbalanced, but he refused to rise to the bait.

“Man, whatever, you’re the one locked up.” Daryl sneered. “Besides, you ain’t even supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be dead!” He turned away, only to stop dead in his tracks when he almost ploughed right into Merle.

“The fuck!” He yelped. He frantically looked back to the cell, finding it exactly as it’d been, minus Merle, then back to his brother who still stood in front of him with a look of asinine glee plastered all over his stupid face.

“Where you think you’re going, Daryl?” Merle asked him in a deceptively casual tone. “Ya know, contrary to what you might believe, I never did mind you tagging along, but I think ya ‘oughta listen to your friends on this one. So go on and get!”

Taking his brother’s words as a challenge Daryl tried to make himself look bigger, more threatening, straightening and puffing out his chest, tilting his head forward slightly on his neck, invading Merle’s space. “Get out of my way, asshole.”

Merle stayed rooted to the spot, continuing to block his path. “Ain’t you listening? Go back, Daryl. There’s nothing for you here!” Merle almost sounded desperate.

He stared at Merle with scrutiny, saw the intensity in his brother’s gaze, the sincerity there; he didn’t trust it. Merle may mean well when it came to Daryl, but following Merle had never gotten him anywhere. With that he shoved past Merle knocking him to the side, and began walking down the row of cells, but only a few steps in he froze as fear slammed back into him full force, his heart once again trying to hammer its way from his chest, beating agonizingly against his ribs. Gasping for breath he stared, not believing what he was seeing, because it just wasn’t possible.

But then she spoke.

“You always were stubborn, Daryl. They all tried to tell you, and you just didn’t listen. It’s your own fault really.”

“A… Andrea?” His voice didn’t even sound like his own, it sounded like it’d come from a child, meek and terrified. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him to feel ashamed, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to be bothered with it. Not with Andrea standing there, talking to him. She was very clearly dead, her face was gray and drawn, her eyes a sickly opaque yellow. The bite on her shoulder was a bloody maw of blackened dead blood and rotting flesh.  Yet there she stood, in a cell of her own, right next to the one Merle had been in just moments ago. She hadn’t been there before.

Right?

“See this?” Andrea asked, pointing to her ruined shoulder. “It’s your fault.”

“It’s not.” Daryl denied vehemently. But doubt still crept into his mind. Was it? Could he have done something to change it?

“You left me behind!” She screamed at him, grabbing the bars of the cell and rattling her cage. “You just left me there!”

“There’s nothing I could have done!” He shouted back. And there wasn’t. He knew it. There was nothing he could have done to save her back at the farm. But he still felt the guilt weighing on his shoulders.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

He turned away, ignoring her screams and accusations, only to stop in his tracks again when he found Lori in the next cell. She was a walker too, her guts hanging open in a jagged cut, gore falling out of her gaping midsection to land at her feet.

“Daryl! Why did you let this happen to me?” She sobbed, as he stared in horror. “You could have done something!”

“I did everything I could!”  

Lori fixed him with a scathing expression, snarling at him. “You let me die! You’re a failure!”

“No! That’s not on me!”

“But it is, Daryl. It’s all on you.”

* * *

 

A low moan pierced the silence of the cell. Startled, Hershel looked to the man lying on the bed before him. Daryl’s pallid skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat, his eyes roving around erratically behind closed lids. It was the first sign of waking the hunter had made since this whole ordeal had begun, and Hershel was both relieved and concerned. Just maybe he was finally coming out of it, but it was also clear that Daryl was in distress, and that worried him greatly.

“Daryl, wake up.” Hershel prodded, taking Daryl’s twitching wrist and feeling for his pulse. He wasn’t pleased with what he found. Daryl’s skin was much too hot to the touch, his fever having skyrocketed since earlier, and his pulse was fast and shallow. Fearing the infection was taking hold of the injured man, Hershel pulled down Daryl’s blanket to check the dressing on his wound again.

It was soaked through with blood.

“Damnit.” He muttered, peeling the soiled bandages back to reveal red, angry looking skin that was starting to swell around the stitches.

“Come on, Son.” Hershel begged, gently tapping Daryl’s cheek. “Daryl, can you hear me?”

Daryl didn’t respond other than to let out another moan, this one bordering on a whimper.

“Daryl! Wake up!” Hershel demanded, tapping his face harder now, as hard as he dared. But still, Daryl didn’t wake.

The old vet leaned back with a solemn sigh and set about cleaning and re-bandaging the wound. There wasn’t much else he could do right now, and he felt sorely inadequate with his inability to help his ailing friend. Just as he was finishing up taping down the dressing a commotion broke out in the common area.

Several voices echoed throughout the prison all at once, a stampede of feet could be heard pounding on the concrete. But Carl’s excited voice ringing out above all the rest of the din gave Hershel a glimmer of hope.

“They’re back! Hershel, they’re back!”

* * *

 

It was too much.

He had to get away.

He could feel the walls closing in on him and without thinking Daryl broke into a run.

But he could still hear them. Andrea and Lori’s curses and outrage followed him from the cages they were locked in. Other voices joined them as he ran down the endless corridor of cells, it was longer than it should have been, holding too many rooms.

It wasn’t right.

None of this was right.

Faces once familiar flashed by, now destroyed by the merciless hands of undeath. Each cell he passed held someone else.

Jacqui. Jim. Dale. Axel. Oscar. Amy.

Shane. Patricia. Jimmy. T-Dog.

Everyone they’d lost was there. All of them emaciated, rotting, wasting away, shouting and leering, blaming and damning. A tirade of accusations hurled at him in anger and hatred, a relentless cacophony of offences rose in the air around him, inescapable, unyielding.

Worthless, failure, trash.

Insults flung at him like refuse. Piercing his soul.

He was breathing too fast, too harshly. His chest was on fire. His head swimming with dizziness. They were all screaming at him now, blaming him for everything that’d ever happened to them. The noise rising around him, seeping into his veins like a physical thing.

Burning, tearing, clawing.

It was too much. It was all too much.

He fell to his knees, letting out a primal scream of hopelessness and pain. His eyes clenched shut, hands covering his ears, body shaking in terror and agony.

And suddenly all was quiet, disconcerting in its silence.

The calm before the storm.

“Daryl.”

His heart seized in his chest.

_No._

_Not her._

“Why didn’t you save me, Daryl?”

_Not Sophia._

“I told ya, and your new best buds did too.” Merle’s voice came from directly behind him, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. “You shoulda gone back. Don’t know, but it might just be too late now.”

And maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, but Merle actually sounded kind of sad about that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry about the wait on this, but here it finally is! I want to thank you all for the comments and kudos and, of course, for reading! Also, I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I feel I should go ahead and do it again. I am not a doctor, my medical knowledge is very limited. I've tried to be as accurate as I can, I feel it makes the story more worthwhile the more believable the scenario, but I'm sure there's some giant medical blunder hidden in this story somewhere, so my apologies. Hopefully I've made it believable enough that you can just run with suspension of disbelief for the stories' sake.
> 
> As always,
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“How’s he doing?” Rick asked Hershel as he set two bags stuffed with supplies down on the floor in front of the vet for him to go through. He was relieved to be back, supplies in tow with minimal trouble in getting them, but looking at Daryl he felt the anxiety he’d been trying so hard to ignore flare up again.

“Not well, Rick.” Hershel responded, digging hurriedly through the bags. “He developed a fever earlier in the day and it’s been slowly rising. Infection has set into his wound and he’s yet to wake. Ah. You managed to find some antibiotics. Good.” Hershel straightened in his seat, producing a vial and syringe from the duffel. He injected the medication into Daryl’s IV line before pinning Rick with a serious look that almost belied his next words. “Hope’s not lost yet.”

Rick turned his gaze from Hershel back onto Daryl, taking in the man’s countenance. The sheen of sweat, pallid skin, hollow cheeks. The vast array of minor cuts and heavy bruising that littered his skin, only interrupted by the thick bandaging covering his torso and wrapped around his head. He looked like he stood at death’s door.

“Yeah.” Rick replied numbly, wishing he could believe his own words. “We still have that.”

* * *

 

His muscles were made of stone. Concrete. Cement. He was a living statue. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift his head. If he did he’d have to see it. And he simply couldn’t bear to see this innocent little girl as a walker. Again.

“You could have saved me, Daryl.”

“I tried.” He murmured to the floor.

“I should be with my mommy. Not here.”

Slowly, he willed his body to work again, and raised his head. He had to.

He couldn’t.

But he had to.

She deserved for him to face her. So he lifted his eyes to meet hers, and was shocked by what he saw. Sophia wasn’t a walker at all. She looked exactly as she had on that fateful day back on the road leaving Atlanta. So innocent, so young, too sweet for the fate she’d met. She was right. She should be with her mamma. And it was his fault that she wasn’t. If he’d been faster, better, whatever. If he’d just done it _right_ , then maybe she’d still be alive.

“I’m so sorry, Sophia.” Daryl whispered, knowing his apologies were worthless, she wouldn’t care, it wouldn’t make a difference. She was still dead. But he had to tell her.

“It’s okay, Daryl.” Sophia said, looking him in the eye serenely. “I know you tried.”

Daryl couldn’t hold her gaze, and turned his eyes back to the floor. It didn’t make sense. He’d fully expected her to lash out at him like all the rest had. Why wasn’t she damning him to the ends of the earth? She was just a child. A life cut short brutally and pointlessly, full of promise, just to be snuffed out before she’d really even begun to live. And she was okay with this? He had tried, but it didn’t matter. He’d failed.  He’d failed her, Carol, the whole group. Finding Sophia had meant so much. And he’d failed them all. How could she let him off so easily?

Sophia’s voice rang out sweetly again. “The others, they all want you to go back. My mom, she wants you to go back. But you don’t have to. You can join us.”

What the hell was this girl going on about? Everybody today, talking in riddles.

Daryl glanced up at her again, gasping in dismay. Her skin only moments ago healthy and unblemished was now mottled and gray, rotting on her bones, a chunk of flesh missing from her shoulder, eyes filmed over, unfocused.

“No.” He found himself standing now, when he’d moved to do that was beyond him, his legs began backing away from her without his consent until his back met a wall and he pressed into it, like he could somehow escape this living nightmare by passing through it, if he only just pushed hard enough.

He was feeling lightheaded again.

“No!” He screamed. “No, this isn’t happening!”

“But it is happening, Daryl.” Sophia said calmly, tilting her head, bringing his attention to yet another cell, right beside hers. This one empty, the door wide open. “It’s okay. You can join us. All you have to do is take a few more steps.”

“What’s she talking about, Merle?” Daryl asked his brother, who’d been silent throughout the exchange, but he had a sinking feeling that he knew. He’d finally figured it out. Maybe he’d known all along and just didn’t want to believe it. Acknowledgement would make it too real.

Because maybe _this_ wasn’t exactly real, but it was real enough. Somehow he’d ended up here, and if he had to take a guess he’d say he was trapped in his own head, which meant something had happened to him, something _bad_ , and the real him was out there, likely struggling, likely dying.

Oh god. He was _dying._  

The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable. His heart felt like it was trying to rip itself right out of his body. But, no. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t really his chest that hurt. Never had been. It was a little lower, a little to the side. He pressed his hand over the spot, feeling a warm wetness and when he lifted his hand to his eyes, it came away covered in blood. Looking down in horror he found a gaping wound in his side, covering him in blood.

How had this happened? _When_ had this happened?

His legs were turning to jelly beneath him, barely able to support him even as he leaned heavily against the wall, his head swimming with dizziness and pounding relentlessly, for a moment he actually entertained the thought that his skull may just split in two from the force of it. He was panicking, he knew, his breathing coming in harsh, shallow gasps. And then Merle was there, right in front of him, telling him to calm down, that he may have had a choice at the start, but his options had run out. All that was left was stepping inside. Join them.

Merle said he was out of time, out of choices.

And ya know what, _fuck that!_

Struggling through the pain, Daryl managed to push himself away from the wall, standing unsteadily. “No choice, huh? The hell I don’t!” He rasped defiantly.

He took a step.

* * *

 

Rick found himself alone in Daryl’s cell once again, holding the still man’s hand and just staring down at him, willing him to wake up, to be okay. Holding the hand of another grown man wasn’t exactly something he’d usually do, but he figured the situation warranted such behavior. Daryl was like a brother to him, and if maybe there was a chance, however small, that holding his hand would somehow let him know that Rick was there, rooting for him, giving him a tie to the world outside of wherever he was trapped right now, then Rick would do it. He had no words at the moment, so physical reassurance seemed like the next best thing.

It’d been nearly half an hour since Hershel had administered the antibiotics to Daryl before excusing himself, needing to get something to eat and rest a bit should Daryl need him. Rick had been sitting there this whole time, trying to come up with something to say, but looking at the broken man before him and feeling it deep in his gut, like a reflection of his own broken soul, and he was at a loss. Words failed him. Just like he’d failed Daryl. If he’d been more vigilant, more prepared, more _something_ , then maybe his best friend wouldn’t be laying here on the precipice of death. Daryl’d had close calls before, but this time, Rick wasn’t sure if he could pull him back. So he sat there, silent; just watching, waiting, hoping for some sign of life. Some sign that Daryl might wake up.

It happened so suddenly, Rick literally felt his heart stop beating for a moment. Because just a second before Daryl had been utterly still, and in the blink of an eye, he was thrashing on the bed, a low keening moan erupting from his throat.

For a moment, Rick was frozen, but just for a moment; then he was erupting into motion himself, frantically trying to hold Daryl down, turning his head toward the entryway of the cell and shouting. “Hershel! Hershel! Get in here _now_!”

He turned back to Daryl, the other man continued to writhe in pain and distress, eyes tightly closed, sweat running in rivulets down his face. “Daryl, you have to calm down. It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s me. It’s Rick. You have to calm down!” Rick pled desperately, to no avail. Keeping Daryl’s shoulders pinned, he turned his head once more, bellowing as loudly as he could. “HERSHEL!”

Glenn burst into the room, chest heaving, panicked eyes taking in the scene and he bolted to the bed clamping his hands down over Daryl’s ankles in an attempt to help Rick keep the man still. “He’s coming! What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Rick shouted knowing he shouldn’t, it would only add to the chaos, but he couldn’t seem to control his volume levels, he was nearly beside himself with worry. Besides, Glenn had been shouting too.

Finally Hershel limped into the cell, as quickly as he could manage. Rick scooted closer to Daryl’s head to make room for the veterinarian, but didn’t dare take his hands off the other man, afraid if he did, he’d fly right off the bed onto the floor.

“What caused this?” Hershel demanded, pulling back one of Daryl’s eye lids, shining a light into it.

“Nothing!” Rick told him, distraught. “He was fine one second, then the next he just started flailing.”

“Well keep him still!” Hershel ordered as he continued examining the ailing hunter. “He’s going to injure himself further if he keeps this up.”

Rick and Glenn tightened their grips, doing their best to hold him down.

“His pupils are reacting to the light better, but he’s still under. His fever’s spiking, along with his pulse and respirations, and his blood pressure is plunging. He wasn’t this bad off just an hour ago. The infection must be getting worse.” Hershel rattled off grimly.

Rick cringed when Hershel ripped back Daryl’s bandage, not even bothering to feign being gentle about it, surely such an injury necessitated a lighter touch, but time didn’t exactly seem to be on their side either. There was a collective gasp from all three men in the room when they saw what had been hidden beneath the gauze. It looked bad. Terrible. Daryl’s skin had swollen completely around the stitches, and was red and puffy, pus oozing from it, terrifying red lines streaking out from around it.

“My god.” Rick uttered under his breath, shocked. He was no doctor, but it didn’t take a genius to see that this was _bad_.

“What is it?” Carol’s voice drifted fearfully through the cotton that seemed to have formed in his ears. With everything, Rick hadn’t even noticed her arrival, and not just her, but everyone in their makeshift family stood gathered at the cell door.

“He’s going into septic shock! He needs stronger antibiotics!” Hershel was a flurry of movement, reaching for the bag of supplies that’d been slid underneath Daryl’s bunk. He didn’t even bother digging through it, just dumped it out right onto the floor, hastily looking through bottles and vials, tossing them to the side when they weren’t what he was looking for. “Maggie! Come help me look through this! We need Meropenem or Cefepime, just something!”

Maggie rushed forward to rifle through the items littered across the floor; she lifted up a vial of liquid for her father to inspect. “Polymyxin B?”

Hershel snatched it from her hand and began preparing it for injection. “This should do. Okay, now once I’ve got this administered I’m going to need to remove these stiches and irrigate the wound.”

“Okay, Daddy.” Maggie promptly began gathering all the materials he’d need for the procedure. She poured some alcohol over his hands while he watched Daryl intently for any changes in his condition. The thrashing had weakened substantially in the last few minutes, allowing Rick and Glenn to back off, and by now he’d mostly stilled. Pained whimpers and moans still escaped him, and he kept shifting about restlessly, rocking his head back and forth minutely from side to side, violent tremors and shivers coursing through his body occasionally. Hershel feared deeply for the man and the state of distress he was in. He’d do everything he could to save him, but even then, it just might not be enough. Even back on the farm, when Carl had been shot, he hadn’t felt this far in over his head. And saving Carl had been nothing short of a miracle.

Saving Daryl… well… it was looking to be another matter entirely.

The group watched in open concern as Hershel made quick work of cutting away the stitches and began flushing the wound out with a saline solution. Daryl tensed as soon as the fluid touched the inflamed tissue, letting out a moan that sounded like it was made of pure agony. Rick felt terrible about all the witnesses to that sound, knowing if Daryl were himself he’d never allow such a noise to breach his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to usher the others away. They were family. Daryl’s family. And if… if this was the end, then they should be here with him at his side. He didn’t want to think like that, and was hoping against hope that wasn’t what this was, but it was looking worse and worse every minute. Daryl’s skin was an ashen gray by the time Hershel was through cleaning out his injury.

Almost as suddenly as it had all begun, Daryl went still. Absolutely still. Rick’s heart skipped a beat again, but even so, he managed to choke out the question on everyone’s minds. “Is he breathing?”

Leaning over, Hershel put his cheek just in front of the hunter’s lips. “Barely.”

There was a collective sigh of relief in the room. Too soon.

The vet touched two fingers over Daryl’s carotid artery, and then, “His heart is slowing. Damnit! We’re losing him!”

For what seemed like the hundredth time in just a few minutes, Rick watched helplessly as Hershel began ripping through the medical supplies again. His throat constricting dangerously as the elderly man grabbed something up off the floor, shouting “Epinephrine, thank god! There’s still a chance!” And then Hershel was slamming a needle down into Daryl’s chest.


End file.
